


The Baker's Ghost

by TheInternationalAffair



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Invisibility, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInternationalAffair/pseuds/TheInternationalAffair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the coast of New Brunswick, in the petite town of Alwasassy, there is a magical bakery of the French variety that offers the warmest, most delectable pastries and breads in all of East Canada, owned by a (somewhat) humble Frenchman fulfilling his desires for a life of peace and quiet by the Canadian landscape.<br/>It is said that what makes the taste of his creations so magically delicious is the touch of a friendly ghost who resides in the bakery, appearing to customers from time to time.<br/>This is the tale of the baker’s ghost. (A Franada fic resulting from a bet wager. Blame Tumblr user takanobaka. Smatterings of implied USUK as well.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Baker's Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woodswake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswake/gifts).



> One day, I told two of my friends I'd write them a multichap if they could do something I didn't think they could pull off in a week.  
> The agreement was that if one did better than the other, I would write them a multichapter fic of the pairing/plot of their choice.  
> If they tied, they would both get one.  
> ....  
> They tied.  
> There's a couple lessons to be learned here:  
> 1) Don't make bets at 2am.  
> 2) Don't let the rules of the bet be changed until you are confused.  
> 3) Actually, don't make bets in the first place.
> 
> I'm not complaining too much, however, because I'm actually really excited to be writing both these stories. I have no idea how long they will be (hopefully six chapters?) and how it will turn out (I may just throw in a few other pairing favorites into here for them because they are spoiled children and I love them). So... let's see how it goes, eh?
> 
> XOXO,  
> TheInternationalAffair
> 
> P.S. Don't nag me on the science-y aspects. I had to bend a few laws here and there to make things work OTL
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Alwasassy and its very notable geographical features are fictional. New Brunswick and the rest of Canada aren't. If you say otherwise be prepared to wake up in a prison of pancakes and syrup and hundreds of angry Canadians.

“Tell me; is this what going mad is like?”

Francis wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but at the time it made sense to speak into the air, assuming that he had successfully taken this _spirit,_ as he would call it for now, into the house.  

Perhaps it was strange to be so calm in the face of the supernatural in the first place. Francis had plenty of friends who would scream and flee at the sight of a spirit, including one silver-haired man who Francis thought resembled a ghost himself.

Then again, to his knowledge none of them had ever seen a ghost in the first place, including Francis—up until now, that is. But now that he had finally met one, Francis realized that, as he had assumed, there was nothing to fear of ghosts at all. This one was no exception, and Francis was determined to make the most of this new experience.

He had always believed that ghosts were sent to the living realm for a reason, and unless they were dangling knives above your innocent head in your sleep, one could safely assume that most ghosts were friendly—you just had to double check first that they weren’t the unfortunate victim of some murderous ancestor from centuries back.

This one in particular seemed to mean no harm so far, if not awfully _quiet._ Francis had nearly locked the shy ghost out when he took it home, only signaled of his error by a few polite knocks a few minutes after he closed the door. This cycle went on a few more times before Francis realized he needed to wait a few moments for the spirit to walk inside the house (with some coaxing).

So far, the ghost didn’t sound like it could walk through doors. And, judging by the sound of footsteps he heard on the floor, it didn’t sound like it was very fond of floating, either, unlike a certain _boule_ roll from earlier that day. Dust had gathered at the soles of spirit’s supposed feet as it walked alongside Francis into his living room, where Francis offered him a seat. There was no reply.  

Francis let the silence sink into the room before he asked for a name. He was met with some mumbling which sounded like something along the lines of “Matthew.”

“Okay, I can call you ‘Matthew,’ if that is fine with you,” replied Francis, settling down in his favorite armchair. He tapped his fingers against the velvet covering, thinking of what else to say to the spirit. Certainly nothing that would make ‘Matthew’ angry. Always the quiet ones that took one by surprise.

It was at this moment that he leaned forward on his seat, frustrated, wondering if he had gone insane.

All he wanted was a reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had found ‘Matthew’ only a few hours ago as he was shooing out the last of his customers for closing.  A couple bundled in faux fur and matching tuques were still arguing politely over the last few loaves of warm, flaky brioche when Francis had come out with a sweeper and a trash bag to clean up for the day. He waved to the couple as his made his way around the store, and they briefly stopped his work for recommendations. After giving them a friendly lecture on good brioche, he picked up one large, buttery roll and handed it personally to the couple before continuing on with his sweeping.

Francis didn’t like to be too pushy when it came to customers—he was truly quite flattered when people took such a long time to admire his handiwork and often encouraged them to stay as long as they wanted, occasionally bribing them with a few samples. One simply couldn’t admire the sweet, buttery smells of a _boulangerie_ in a hurry—the golden brown tops of fresh loaves and the steam rising off the freshest batch would slip past the eyes of morning rush commuters, and the very essence of a dying art form—at least, the way Francis saw it—would be lost on them.

Either way, Francis always welcomed more business. It was better to increase the exposure of _authentic_ French cuisine in some way or another, something that the busy world these days could hardly appreciate anymore. Customers like the couple he was now ringing up were always welcome company.

After putting their purchases into a pearly white box and waving them off into the street, Francis watched the last of his customers disappear around the corner with a smile before locking the door and turning back to sweeping the floors.

Francis’ shop was a finely decorated room that required much attention and maintenance to keep up the classy décor and atmosphere. Woven baskets of varying sizes lined the top shelves, filled with sugary, crispy angel wings and a variety of cookies— _madeleines_ , _sables_ , _palmiers_ , the standard cookie assortment of any proper French bakery _._ In the clear glass cabinets, breads and pastries with names that exercised your tongue in the French language were arranged by shape and color in every compartment, the _macarons_ and _croquembouche_ s at their special throne in the refrigerated display by the counter. On the top of that display, trays of fresh, round, plump _boule_ were cooling off for morning pickup, one of them floating a couple feet away from the counter.

Floating?

Now, Francis may have been a very skilled baker, but he had never been so good that he could make his bread float. Not even the light, spongy _genoise_ he made on occasion, so light that they melted like fairy dust on the tongue. In fact, any sort of baked good floating in mid-air would have reasonably elicited a reaction of shock and surprise.

Francis’ reaction of choice was a yelp. His sweeper clattered to the ground as he stood there, mouth agape.

The _boule_ dropped to the ground like a deflated basketball before being scurriedly picked up again, a flurry of apologies coming from it as it sat itself haphazardly back onto the tray it had come from.

Apologies?

Bread floating may have been questionable to an extent, but bread certainly did not talk. With extreme caution, Francis edged over towards the display, his sweeper in hand just in case something was to explode. One never knew when something might.

Whatever force he was dealing it gave surprisingly little resistance. Fingerprint marks formed where hands would press against the glass casing, smudging as if the hands making them were shaking. France advanced an inch forward, now drawing the sweeper a little closer to his chest. He felt a strange warmth as he neared the display of macarons and puffs, which miraculously hadn’t fallen off their shelving and towers during the whole ordeal.

He could only hear the sound of two people breathing—one’s breath calm and steady, the other nervous, every exhale wisps of pure fear.

The baker, realizing that the poor thing was probably petrified by now, finally set the sweeper down. Whatever it was that stood in his bakery looked (or rather, sounded) too scared to hurt Francis.

There had to be a different approach to this.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Francis eyed the armchair across from him carefully, noticing small rustling and sounds of breathing from that general area, but also the lack of an indent where the rear ought to have been for someone who should have been seated, even though Francis had politely offered. Now that he had thought about it, none of the furniture in the room had been touched at all for the last hour he had spent staring into and talking at nothingness.

“Why aren’t you sitting down?” asked Francis with a furrowed brow, now concentrating very hard at the (untouched? It was hard to tell) chair.

Soft shuffling was heard and the tea table jumped slightly, followed by a small “Ow!” Francis could swear that he heard a pair of thumbs twiddling (that weren’t his, mind you) before he could hear a quiet reply.

“P-pardon me.”

At last, ‘Matthew’ had said something besides his own name. Francis excitedly motioned the spirit to continue. The request was timidly obliged.

“S-sir, I’m. I’m not wearing any…” A very loud gulp.

“Go on—You can say anything to me, I am not one to judge!” Francis said encouragingly.

“I’m not wearing any clothes.” Whispered the voice quickly.

The carpet rustled and a couple trinkets hanging from the ceiling fan suddenly began to flick back and forth. Sounds of skin against fabric and the rattling of window shutters seemed to imply now that the spi— _Matthew_ was hiding in… embarrassment, most likely.

Francis had to try and hold back a laugh. And so he tried.

It didn’t work.

As Francis chuckled very loudly to himself, the voice protested unintelligibly (and rather timidly) with small notes of fear and anxiety, prompting the man to calm himself down and remind himself that it was no laughing matter. Francis couldn’t even imagine not being able to see his beautiful figure—it wouldn’t do to make the guest suffer such a fate. (He would hate to be a ghost, come to think of it.)

“Don’t be so ashamed of yourself,” exclaimed Francis at last, standing up from his own seat to head up the stairs, “I’m certain that you have a lovely figure! Now why don’t you take a seat and I’ll find you some clothes?”  He wasn’t sure if a ghost needed clothes, but it was worth a try.

Francis paused for a reply. Dead air bristled against old, Rococo-inspired wallpaper. For a few seconds, he wondered if he had scared off ‘Matthew’ once and for all when he heard a squeak of polished leather from the corner of the room. Francis turned to look at the plush leather chair gathering dust there and noticed the shape of curled up hand forming on its back. It seemed that ‘Matthew’ would at least stay for a bit longer.  Francis imagined him to be nodding, even.

He looked at the clock. It was already nine-thirty at this point, and the outside was probably too cold for wherever ‘Matthew’ had said he needed to go to. Giving ‘Matthew’ some clothes (as so requested) and sending him off probably wouldn’t do, and so far ‘Matthew’ seemed to be completely harmless.

Besides, how often could one say that he was host to a real, live, breathing ghost?

“Actually, I have changed my mind,” the baker finally said, “How about you stay here for a few more days until we can figure why your soul was sent to freeze here? I have to work for the rest of the week, but I can close up shop on the weekend.” Francis looked down at the apron still tied around his waist and sighed. “Business has been quite slow, recently. No one here seems to care for fine artisan French pastries anymore,” he added.

It was true—Francis made enough to get by comfortably, but the familiarity of his products paled in comparison appearance of newer, fresher bakeries in the public eye. This meant that his clientele was limited mostly to friends and regulars. That alone was enough, but it didn’t stop the fear of having to close shop forever from pushing at the back of his mind.

But that was the least of his worries right now—currently there was a ghost on his hands to worry about.

“Well, how about it? Come up and I’ll find some clothes to fit you. You can change in the bathroom if you feel uncomfortable, though the only thing I’ll see is whatever fine clothes you’re wearing,” he said with a friendly wink, only for his comment to be followed by a silence seconds too long.

Then, a rustle.

‘Matthew’ finally seemed to acknowledge the sentiment, indicated by sounds of soft chuckling and more shuffling against the carpet that grew louder and louder until it reached the stairwell. With a wide grin, Francis led ‘Matthew’ up the stairs and flicked off the lights of the floor below, when a bump from seemingly nowhere barely toppled him over.

“S-sorry,” ‘Matthew’ stammered as his voice trailed up to the second floor accompanied by soft footsteps.

“Don’t worry a thing, my friend,” Francis replied warmly as the presence of Matthew disappeared ahead of him. He sighed.

For something so paranormal, his first encounter with a ghost seemed so…ordinary. And although it was perhaps a bit disappointing, Francis, tired from the day’s events, welcomed the mundane. 


End file.
